The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  JB sat back in the chair and stared out the window a few minutes. Then he picked up the phone and hit speed dial.

  “Denny Bucking Bulls, Charla speaking.” Her business voice was so cute, he had to smile.

  He raised his voice three octaves to disguise it. “Yeah, I was wondering, how do you collect semen, anyway?”

  “James Benton, I don’t have all day to play games with you on the phone. I’m busy here.”

  “Hey, Charla Rae, have you seen my hat?”

  “What hat?” Her voice went all skinny.

  “You know, my champion softball cap. I’ve searched everywhere, and I can’t find it.”

  “Um. I haven’t seen it recently.”

  “Keep your eye open for it, will you?” He paused. “That’s not really why I called. I wanted to ask you a favor.” At her sigh, he added, “Not for me. See, there’s this kid at the feedlot. He wants to be a bull rider. He’s a bit unconventional and—”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “Well, he’s embarrassed to buck in front of the high school team. He’s never been on a bull. I thought I’d bring him out to the ranch and run a couple of practice bulls under him, to see what he’s got. I didn’t know how you’d feel about having a kid on the place. I don’t want to make you sad, or uncomfortable.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Nobody you know. His name is Travis, and he works in the feed store.”

  “Oh, the Dumpster monkey!”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind, I know him.”

  Her throaty chuckle reminded him how long it’d been since he heard it. And how much he missed it.

  “You can bring him out, JB.”

  “I appreciate it, Charla Rae. Underneath all the attitude, he’s a good kid.”

  “Oh, and JB? Thanks for asking.”

  Her voice was as soft as the click that followed it.

  Char hung up the phone and, holding the material together, pressed the foot pedal of her mother’s sewing machine. The garish pink-and-black tiger-striped cotton fabric almost hurt her eyes. She held up the garment. A ruffle, maybe? Yes. Definitely.

  Cutting a strip of material, she absorbed Jimmy’s call. The past handful of years, he wouldn’t have given a thought to how his actions might affect her. The fact that he had now was a balm to her chafed heart. So sweet.

  This would be good for Jimmy. He loved kids, and they gravitated to him, sensing that a part of him had never grown up. It made him aggravating lots of times, but it was also the source of his playful, fun side.

  Dang it, if Jimmy could evolve to a point that he considered her feelings, what excuse did she have for not growing up and facing her own sins? She snapped off the iron, then the sewing machine. Her nerves jangled. The Valium’s tired one-note song ran through her head, as it did whenever she contemplated the mess she’d made of her life. Ignoring it, she strode the hall to the living room.

  Rosa sat across the table from her dad, their heads bent over a jigsaw puzzle.

  Char glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Rosa, don’t you need to get on the road?”

  The round-faced woman looked up. “I’ve got another hour or so free today. I can stay.”

  It’s an omen. Char gritted her teeth. Once she committed herself, there was no going back. “Do you mind if I step out for a bit? I promise I won’t be more than an hour.”

  “We’re fine. Go, go.” Rosa waved a hand at her, attention already back to the puzzle.

  Char walked to the kitchen, thanking God that she lived in a county with such a rich support system for its residents. She’d have to remember not to complain, the next time her property tax bill arrived in the mail.

  Checking to be sure she had the address, and before she could talk herself out of it, Char grabbed her purse and headed for the back door.

  Ten minutes later, she turned in at an apartment complex on the older side of town. She trolled the labyrinth of narrow drives, scanning the redbrick buildings for the correct number. Within a few numbers of the building, she pulled into a parking space, turned off the engine, and sat, marshalling her courage. She felt open, vulnerable, as if her skin had been stripped off.

  After the funeral, Reverend Mike had told her about the grief group offered by Saint Luke’s Hospital. When Jimmy left, she’d become a robot: going through the motions to get through each day. After a few weeks, the echoes of happier times rang through the empty rooms, and the Valium stopped blocking it. She knew she had to do something or go mad.

  Not that she’d added to the discussions at group. She sat like a lump most days, tears rolling down her cheeks. Yet being there seemed to quiet the sounds in her head a bit. So she kept going every day. They were typical group therapy sessions led by a gentle, sensitive young man who taught them the stages of grief and how to get through the tough times. Members stayed as long as they needed to, drifting away when they moved to the final stage: acceptance.

  Char got to know the members through their stories. Husbands, siblings, parents—a phalanx of dead people, kept alive through the memories of those who loved them. Telling the stories appeared to help the others. But for Char, panic welled at the thought of speaking, and she’d find herself standing in the parking lot, hands shaking so badly she scratched the paint on the car door, trying to get the key in the lock.

  Typical too, she supposed, were the dynamics of the group. Most had been members long enough to get comfortable. Sometimes that support took a harsh tone, to snap the person out of a stuck place.

  She shouldn’t have pushed me.

  Looking back now, Char could hardly believe the crazed woman who’d stood screaming into that old lady’s face had been her. She could hardly blame them for asking her to leave and not return. Char snatched the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it and got out. Peering at apartment numbers, she rounded a corner to a quadrangle of grass between buildings. A rusted swing set and neglected sandbox stood testament that these buildings hadn’t always been retirement quarters. Dirty paper lay tangled in the weeds, and grass sprang from the cracks in the sidewalk. Echoes of children’s shouts from another time came to her in the wind drifting over the empty playground. She hunched her shoulders and broke into a trot.

  At the next building, breathless, she forced her feet to slow, then stop, before the paint-chipped door. I shouldn’t have come. Pushing herself was one thing, but what if she pushed herself over the edge back into the pit of Valium despair?

  You’re made of sterner stuff than that, Charla Rae. Trust yourself.

  “Thanks, Mom.” She smoothed her newly shortened hair behind her ears and took a deep breath to slow her galloping heart. One hand in a death grip on her purse, she forced the other to knock.

  The sound echoed in the empty courtyard. She heard a rustling behind the door. The woman who opened it looked smaller than Char remembered. Older too. Not a dragon, just a bent, gray-haired old lady in a cheap lavender pantsuit, a hopeful look on her face.

  When the lady recognized her visitor, hope flashed to fear. She slammed the door.

  Char stepped closer and leaned her ear to the door. “Ms. Armstrong?” In the quiet beyond, she sensed the woman standing on the other side. “Please, Ms. Armstrong, I just want to talk.”

  Nothing.

  The truth squirmed up from her chest and out of her throat. “To apologize.”

  The knob turned, and the door opened a crack, displaying a red-rimmed eye and a sliver of silver hair.

  “Sincerely apologize.” Saying the words eased an ache that had been hurting in her for so long, she’d forgotten it.

  The door opened, and watching carefully, the woman ushered her in without a word.

  It was a small space, full of the old-person smell of cough drops, stale breath, and ancient dusting powder. Char walked into a living room of heavy drapes and dark corners. The old woman sat in a hardwood rocker and gestured Char to an early-American print sofa.

  Expecting to be turned aw
ay, Char hadn’t planned past the front door. “Are you getting on all right, Ms. Armstrong?”

  “Miriam.” Her mouth pursed. “If you know me well enough to get up in my face and scream me down, we’re on a first-name basis.”

  Char sat, fingering the crocheted doily on the couch arm. “I don’t know what happened that day, Miriam. I was not myself.” She made herself meet the old woman’s gaze. “I had problems. We all did, but I had an extra one. I was addicted to Valium.” At Miriam’s frown, she hurried on. “I’m not using that as an excuse. There is no excuse for what I did. I’ve carried the shame of it ever since.” Char cleared her throat and sat up straight. “I’m better now, though. I know you were only trying to help.” She took a breath.

  “I felt like if I put away the grieving and went on with life, I’d be abandoning my son. I tuned out everyone, trying to stay in that place with him. Nothing was too dear, even my husband.

  “Then here you came, prodding and pushing, telling me to move on, go live my life. I snapped.” Char looked down to see the doily wadded in her hands. She’d been picking threads, one by one. She made herself smooth it back onto the arm of the couch and put her hands in her lap. “I hurt you. I ruined whatever good I had left in my life, all for the sake of an impossible dream.”

  Char looked up. The old lady’s chin wobbled, her shoulders shaking. Char reached across the gulf between them and laid her hand over Miriam’s.

  The little woman’s tremulous whisper was fierce. “And I wanted to prod you. There you sat, shedding all the tears that I couldn’t. I’m hardly one to lecture about denial.” She took the tissue that Char offered and dabbed at her eyes. “Burt died so suddenly. I was alone.” She raised her destroyed face to Char. “How could I survive in a world where something like that could happen?”

  Char nodded in understanding.

  “In some twisted way, I thought that by controlling you, I’d get some control over what was happening to me.”

  Two cups of coffee and many words later, Char stood in the hall, saying her good-byes. “You know, when I was a little girl, if something went wrong in a game, we asked for a do-over.” She stood, hand on the doorknob. “I often wish I could call a do-over for the entire past year and a half.”

  Miriam went still, her hand on Char’s arm. “Charla, are you a churchgoing woman?”

  She lifted the strap of her purse over her shoulder, gently shrugging off the woman’s touch. “I used to be.”

  “I ask, because that’s what got me through. There’s something about sitting in church, letting the peace settle over you. It helps.” She smiled. “Okay, I’m not prodding. It’s just something to think about.”

  When the door closed behind her, Char squinted into the brutal sunshine, feeling as if she’d stepped out of a cave. Somehow lighter, cleaner. She took in a deep breath of fresh Texas air and followed the sidewalk back to her car.

  As she rounded the corner, no voices whispered in the breeze that swept through the grass of the quadrangle.

  Maybe every day is a do-over.

  CHAPTER

  19

  The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance—it is the illusion of knowledge.

  —Daniel J. Boorstin

  Char walked out of the barn, dusting her hands. At the sound of an engine backfire, she looked up. An old beater rounded the side of the house in a fog of oily smoke. She guessed the paint color had once been blue. Or maybe silver. The driver shut down the engine, but it fought, chugging, coughing, and sputtering as he opened the door and stepped out.

  She walked over. “Hello, Travis. Are you here for your first lesson?”

  He had to lift the door to close it. “Hey, Ms. Denny.”

  They both watched as the car completed theatrical death throes, rattling and huffing, until, with a last burp, it settled. She waited for a few seconds longer, just to be sure. “You may want to get that looked at.”

  He smiled. “Nah, it’s all good. It always does that.” His fingers beat a cadence against his leg as his gaze scanned the yard. And the three bulls standing in corral. “JB around?”

  She smiled. “He’s in the tack room, waiting. I’m not going to watch and make you more nervous, but I want you to know that I’m rooting for you, Travis.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Denny.” He took a few steps, turned, and, walking backward, added, “And thanks for letting me come out.”

  JB lifted his old bull rope from the peg in the tack room and shook the dust off. He ran his hand over it, looking for weak spots. The leather-covered hand grip was worn, and the rope was stiff with decade-old stickum, but it would do. He picked up a flank rope on his way out the door.

  Travis strode toward him, looking as riled as a Thoroughbred before a race. JB was glad to see the kid owned Wranglers and a pair of boots. No, not his. JB realized the boots were several sizes too big as the kid clumped toward him. “We’re going to need to get you a decent hat.”

  Travis snugged the backward baseball cap tighter over his bleached-white hair. “Is there some rule says I’ve got to wear one?”

  “Nope. In fact, rules say you’ve got to wear this.” JB pulled his surprise from inside the tack room: a state-of-the-art bull rider’s helmet. It looked like a football helmet, but with a metal cage over the face.

  Travis backed up a step. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “You will if you want to ride on my property.”

  The boy shot JB a defiant stare. “You never did.”

  “They didn’t have them when I was riding. If they had, I would have.” He turned his head, to display his profile. “Do you think I was born with this nose? I broke it more times than I remember. And my cheekbone, twice.”

  Travis winced.

  “No reason to be stupid about it. Are those the only boots you own?”

  “My mom’s last boyfriend forgot them when he left.” His look dared JB to say anything.

  “They’ll do, for now.” JB handed Travis the ropes and gathered his old bull-riding chaps, spurs, and padded flack vest from the shelf.

  They walked to the practice paddock JB had set up, each to their own thoughts. JB looked over at Travis. Terrified.

  Just like you were, the first time. It’s going to be great, working with a kid again.

  This should be Benje, walking beside me to his first bull.

  Something bitter rose in him, burning his eyes, making them water.

  Would there always be a hole in the world where his son should be?

  Char hummed the song that had been running through her head all day, an old show tune her mother used to clean the house to.

  A rock band in the 1960s had covered the song, but Char loved the original. A lilting, longing song about love in the spring. The long-handled nippers were awkward to use, but they didn’t faze Pork Chop. She dozed in the stall, one foot between Char’s knees, unimpressed with her pedicure.

  A rich bass voice outside the stall joined in, humming. She stopped, startled, then, smiling, sang the next line.

  JB entered the stall, singing. He put his thumbs in his pockets and stuck out his chest.

  Char dropped Pork Chop’s leg and straightened.

  They finished the song together, his resonant base singing the melody, and her mezzo-soprano weaving in the harmony. They’d discovered in high school that their voices were good together.

  The last note hung in the air. The sun came out in Jimmy’s happy grin, and Char felt her day lighten. When he smiled, the years fell away, and he looked like the boy she’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Feeling her face heat, she retrieved the rasp from the straw and lifted Pork Chop’s hoof to file the rough edges. “How did Travis do?”

  Jimmy reached for the rasp, then apparently thought better of it. “Well, he’s going to be sleeping on an ice pack tonight, but he did real good. The kid is small and compact, and he has good awareness of his body.” Leaning against the wall, he tucked his hands in his armpits and crossed his ankles. “He do
esn’t know a thing about bulls though. Apparently he and his mom moved here not long ago from Ohio.”

  “No dad?”

  “Just a steady stream of boyfriends from what I gather. He said his mom chose Fredericksburg because of his great-uncle Junior. Sounds like she’s been down on her luck.”

  Char put the final touches on the hoof, dropped it, and straightened. “Then she’s lucky that she’s got family close.”

  “If Travis wants to stick with this and work hard, I think he could be ready to join the high school team by fall.”

  She gathered her armload of tools and, looking up at him, tried to smile. “You know, Jimmy, you should find a woman who can give you kids. You’re good with them, and they’re good for you.”

  “No kid is going to take Benje’s place.” He walked up to her and looked down, the pain stark on his face. “You think I’m so shallow that I’d lose my son and then go make another?” He strode to the stall door, then turned back. “I had my boy,” he said before he stalked out.

  God, the pain in his face. He’d looked like she’d just torn out his guts. Char stood stunned a moment, then dropped everything and followed him. “Jimmy, wait!” She trotted to catch up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” When she touched his arm, he stopped. “I only meant that you’re so good with kids, it’d be a shame if you didn’t have more of your own.”

  Silence descended as he studied her face, to see if she was telling the truth. That hurt. But she supposed she’d earned it. She’d closed herself off from him for so long. Why should he believe her?

  She’d taken for granted that Jimmy was hard, that he didn’t hurt as badly as she did. The wariness in his eyes now made her ashamed of herself. Just because he couldn’t show his feelings didn’t mean he didn’t have them. Yet the thought of apologizing, exposing her vulnerability to the man who’d run the last time she really needed him? It felt like stepping off the curb in front of a car. But if she’d learned anything in the past year, she’d learned that the road to denial ended at a box in the garage.